


Birth of the White Wolf

by Kayasurin



Series: The White Wolf [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: F/M, Graphic description of dead bodies, Graphic description of werewolf shapeshifting, M/M, Patricia Briggs Werewolf Lore, Plenty of other tags I can't think of right now, Pre-Spirithood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayasurin/pseuds/Kayasurin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolf: (in folklore and superstition) a human being who has changed into a wolf, or is capable of assuming the form of a wolf, while retaining human intelligence.</p><p>Jack was unusual long before Manny called him as a Guardian. </p><p>Prologue story for The Year Without an Easter, coming soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> People die. Some violence. Jack dies. You have been warned.

Old Jack wiped sweat off his forehead with the cuff of one sleeve. “I think that’s done it,” he said, and dropped down off the roof. It wasn’t so bad a drop; the top of his head was above the lowest part of the roof. His cousin, Jackin - his family had a fondness for the name Jack and all its derivatives - lived in an old style farmer’s cott, with sunken dirt floor and a thatch roof as thick as Old Jack’s forearm. Cozy and warm in winter, and not a boiling pot in summer.

The thatch had needed a bit of work, though, and Jackin had broken his arm. He’d asked for Old Jack’s help in exchange for a good dozen eggs and a slab of bacon, and how was any man to say no to that? His dear Jenna could do wonders with eggs and bacon.

“Well, that should do.” Jack brushed his hands off, deliberately casual. The King’s soldiers were passing by on the road, and he didn’t much like the look of those men. Hard, crude, suspicious. Mind, with the animal attacks, armed men patrolling weren’t a bad idea, but Old Jack didn’t like the thought of his wife anywhere near the soldiers.

One of the passing soldiers turned and stared at the two men, but what could he see? A farmer and a shepherd talking. Nothing odd or strange about that.

“I’ll get ye those eggs and bacon, then,” Jackin said. It took a bit of trouble to understand him; he drawled thanks to some injury or other from his childhood. Old Jack remembered that Jackin had been with the midwife or the priest for one injury or other for most of his life. Man was clumsy, probably had trouble seeing, but good natured enough. And tough, to keep bouncing back from the various hurts.

“I’ll be here.” Old Jack watched the soldiers until they vanished out of sight, hidden by the screen of trees some long-ago ancestor had left in place, as windbreak and to hold the soil. Every fool knew that ploughing broke up and loosened the soil. Good for new seedlings, bad when the rain came in and washed it all away. But then, Old Jack was a shepherd, not a farmer. His opinion counted for nothing.

Jackin came back with the promised basket, and Old Jack took it with thanks.

“How’s the boy coming?” Jackin asked.

“Young Jack? Good. Smart as anything and eager to do everything I do.” He laughed, and added, “Had to fish him out from the sheep pen. Had himself a bit of knife, Lord knows where he got it, and was trying to sheer the sheep.”

Jackin laughed, as he’d intended, and waved him off. Neither of them could spend all day talking, not when Jackin had the family vegetable garden to weed and Old Jack had the sheep to take out to pasture.

They’d tolerated being shut up in the fenced yard long enough.

Old Jack dropped the basket off just inside the house, and caught up his shepherd’s crook. The dogs, which had been keeping an eye on the herd, perked up as he approached.

“Alright,” he said, and opened the gate.

One dog - Spot, for the black speckles across her muzzle - went into the yard, while the other - Socks, because his paws were white - set to keeping the sheep all together while they streamed out.

Some days Old Jack regretted letting his daughter name the dogs, but Anna so enjoyed it.

The sheep and cattle grazed on land too rocky for farming, where the only tree was an infrequent and stunted thing. The local Lord, whatever his name was, didn’t use the area for his hunts, so there was nothing stopping the villagers from grazing their animals out there. Old Jack directed the dogs to an area that hadn’t been inflicted with cows or other sheep of late, and settled in to keeping an eye on things.

There had been wolves, lately. Big, oddly coloured wolves, with markings similar to Old Jack’s dogs. Some damn fool had let a bitch get stolen away by a wolf pack, Old Jack figured, and the resulting pups had grown up big and bold, unafraid of humans and _hungry_.

The wolves had attacked humans, too. No one had died, yet, but there were several who’d be crippled for the rest of their lives. And, too, the wolves had - from the stories Old Jack had heard - been vicious, as nasty as dogs trained to guard the great estates. Of course, stories grew in the telling, but a dog or wolf didn’t have to be some kind of supernatural monster to hurt or kill a man.

Or a woman.

Old Jack clenched his teeth, and focused on the flock. Jenna and Anna and Young Jack were up at Jenna’s mother’s farm, helping with… oh, he didn’t know what. Whatever they could put their hands to, he supposed. Weeding, bringing water out to the farmers in the field, collecting berries from the bushes Jenna’s father kept along the edge of his land, since trees wouldn’t grow there for love nor money…

The attacks had all been in the next couple villages over, not this one. His family would be just fine.

Better to think about other things. Anna had herself a suitor of late, the young baker’s son, and she’d been making the moon-eyes right back. No boy would ever be good enough to suit his little girl, but Old Jack thought he could tolerate that boy well enough. Not like the French lad that’d moved in, whatever his name was. Gaston, he thought it was, with that arrogant little lilt at the end of the word. That one had been going through the available girls like a ram through a flock of ewes.

So yes, Anna’s suitor was something he could think about for hours at a time, brooding over his little girl growing up and looking to get married. The boy was set to inherit the bakery, so they’d always have work. Anna enjoyed baking and cooking, for just her family or for all the cousins and aunts and uncles. It’d be a good match, if only she wasn’t _his_ daughter.

He whiled away a pleasant hour that way, turning the situation over and over in his mind, while the sheep grazed and the dogs kept watch. When he tired of that, he turned his mind to Young Jack, the son he’d never thought he’d have. Anna had been hard on Jenna, so hard that Anna was eleven years older than her little brother, with not a sibling between the two. Perhaps it was better, that way. Jenna had been able to focus all her attention on Anna, not having to split her focus between a young daughter and a new baby as so many other women did. And Young Jack, well, he thrived as an ‘only’ child.

He did want more children, but Old Jack had resolved to dote on his eventual grandchildren, instead of praying and wishing for something he couldn’t have. If his choice was Jenna or a third child, well… he’d pick Jenna and that was the end of it.

“Jack! Jack!”

He turned away from the flock, and jerked back as though punched. Darryl, Jenna’s brother-in-law, was running and waving his arms as though his life depended on it.

Or someone else’s…

“Darryl?” Old Jack gestured for the dogs to stay and keep the flock where they were, and ran to meet him. “Darryl, what-?”

“Wolf!” Darryl bent over, hands braced on his knees, and gasped for breath. “Wolf - attacked - the girls - have to hurry!”

Old Jack didn’t wait to hear any more. He just took off, running as fast as one of his dogs.

The village seemed to take only a minute to run through, and at the same time it seemed to take forever. People turned to watch him go, but all he saw was a blur of color and blank, pale ovals where their faces should be. Then he was through, and racing down the lane to Jenna’s sister’s farm.

His legs burned, and his lungs ached, and still he wasn’t running fast enough.

There was shouting ahead. People in the way. He shoved his way through them, aware distantly that they were soldiers and they were trying to stop him, but he was blind and deaf to everything but the still forms lain out on the side of the road.

“Jenna! Anna! Jack!” There were too many bodies - but only one of them was the size of a little boy just turned five. “Jack!”

He fell beside the smallest body, and pulled away the - the tablecloth - covering him. “Jack,” he moaned, and looked to the next two bodies. Jenna was to one side of his boy - he pulled the blanket back up to covered the ruin of her head. Anna was to the other side of his wife, and on her the wound was a crushed and opened chest.

His boy had been gutted. His wife as good as beheaded. And something had eaten his little girl’s heart.

Someone screamed. After a moment, Old Jack realized it was him.

The screams poured out, rage and grief and pain set to drive him mindless. People tried to talk to him, but their voices were so much noise. There was shouting, and someone began to take the bodies away and load them up in a horse cart. The poor beast was wild-eyed and sweat-soaked, the blood and Old Jack’s screaming making it fret.

“He’s still alive! Get the priest!”

Old Jack’s screams had reduced to whimpers, so he knelt beside his Jenna, his Anna, sobbing. Gone. All gone. Wife. Daughter. Son. Gone.

“Jack. Jack!” Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, hard. He looked up, snarling, intent only on smacking whoever it was away.

“Enough of that, Jack!” Another cousin - his mind had gone blank. John, that was it. John who traded him hay for wool yarn over the winter. John looked pained, but he shook Jack again. “Enough. Your boy’s alive still!”

Alive? Alive! “But-" he rasped, voice down to nothing from his screaming. “But. His stomach.”

“We’ve sent for the priest, they’re taking him to the midwife. If anyone can…” John trailed off, and closed his eyes. “Come. Let the dead be. The living’s what you need to care for now.”

Leave? Leave his wife? Leave his little girl? “I can’t-"

“Your son needs you. They don’t, not anymore. I’m sorry, Jack.” John knelt down and clasped his hands on Old Jack’s shoulders. “They’re in Heaven now, you know this. But your boy, Young Jack. He’s here, he’s in pain - and he’s awake.”

Old Jack stumbled after John, until someone forced him up onto a horse’s back. The old plough horse stretched his legs out uncomfortably, but it was sedate enough that he didn’t feel at risk of falling off. John climbed up on a horse much like Old Jack’s, so much like he suspected they were siblings. The horses set off at a quick walk, and Old Jack caught hold of his horse’s mane to keep from tipping off the side.

The horse moved faster than he could walk, though he could have run faster - if his legs supported him. That was doubtful after the race earlier.

John caught hold of both horses when they reached the midwife’s home. Old Jack stumbled in, leaning on his shepherd’s crook - and how had he hung onto it the entire time? - for support.

The midwife, Brenda, pointed at a small, still lump on her bed. “He’s awake,” she murmured, and patted his shoulder.

“Ah, son.” Old Jack sat down on the side of the bed, and stroked his boy’s hair off his sweating forehead. “Here now. You’ll be alright.”

“Da.” Young Jack whimpered, and clenched his eyes shut. “Da.”

“Shh.” He continued to stroke Young Jack’s hair. “Shh now.”

The boy fell unconscious soon enough, and his breathing evened out a touch.

“He’s strong,” Brenda said. “If we can keep infection from taking him off, God willing, he’ll survive.”

Survive. Old Jack bowed his head under the word, and shivered. “What… what happened?”

“Those wolves,” she said. “They attacked the farm. Nearly everyone…” She trailed off, and rubbed her cheeks with her fingers. “So far only your boy’s survived. It was lunch, no one was inside…”

Old Jack found himself reaching for Brenda’s hand, and holding tight. “What are they?” he asked, bewildered. “What are they?”

No mortal animal could do those injuries. He’d seen more than one man mauled by a dog. But his Jenna’s head had been _crushed_ , his Anna’s chest _torn open_. Dogs couldn’t do that. Wolves couldn’t either, not in a hit and run attack like this seemed to be.

So it was something else. Something worse.

“I think…” Brenda looked around, and hunched her shoulders. “I think it was a _loup garou_.”

“A…” Old Jack shook his head. “I don’t speak French.”

“German savage.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s alright, not your fault. A _loup garou_ … you would call it the wolf-man, I think. The man who can turn into a wolf. It cannot be harmed by anything but silver. And it lusts for mortal flesh.”

Old Jack shivered, and turned back to his son.

A werwolf had attacked his family. His son. Only a Godless monster could attack helpless women and children, he supposed, but it didn’t make sitting by his son, brooding over the poor child, any easier.

He could smell something off. Perforated bowels? Oh, God, his boy had been _gutted_. How had he survived even this long?

Old Jack realized he was praying, an inarticulate mumble over clasped hands, no real words but the occasional ‘please’ and ‘have mercy’. He wasn’t even sure what he was praying for. His boy to survive? What good would that be if Young Jack would suffer? His boy to die? For the werwolf to be hunted down and killed? That he be the one to kill the beast?

He didn’t know. All he could do was pray, and keep his boy company.

Young Jack woke several times. Once he asked for something to drink; Brenda gave him a wooden cup of apple cider, and he managed to drink half. Mostly, he asked for his father, for his mother, and cried when Old Jack had to tell him his mother couldn’t come.

Oh, Jenna…

“Jack, my son.” The priest stepped in, and hurried over to the bedside. He looked drawn and grave. “Oh, my poor boy.”

Old Jack felt his throat close up, and he bowed his head with a keen. The priest rested one hand on his head, and he heard the man murmur a blessing.

“We’ll do what we can. The Lord Father will not make your son suffer, but we have to try.”

Yes. Father George always spoke of free will in his sermons. God only interfered when humans had reached the end of their limits and then _asked_ for his help. Else He kept out of it, letting His children make their mistakes. God would only help Young Jack if they tried everything else first.

It didn’t feel _fair_ \- but life was not fair.

Old Jack did what the priest and midwife told him to - most of which seemed to involve sponging Young Jack’s forehead with a damp cloth. The priest woke Young Jack up long enough to give him a small draft of ale, more than enough to knock the poor boy out while the priest went over the stitches on his stomach. The midwife had done them, and the priest congratulated her on a neat, clean job.

“Keep him lightly tipsy for the pain,” he directed Brenda. “I’ll be by tomorrow - if he survives the night I believe his chances will go up.”

Old Jack let himself be chided into cleaning up and eating, though the food stuck in his throat and didn’t want to stay down. Then Brenda put him to bed, curled up around his son, and tucked him in as if they were both children. She vanished into the back room, presumably to a spare bed, but what little energy he had left was focused upon his son, not upon curiosity.

He thought, briefly, of the dogs and sheep, but couldn’t make himself care. Someone else would bring the sheep in and feed the dogs, or not.

His wife was dead, his daughter was dead, and his son was dying. Old Jack sobbed into the pillow, a quiet outpouring of emotions that swept him off to sleep.

* * *

Young Jack survived the night, but he had a fever by morning that left him flushed and weak. Brenda sent Old Jack out - he had to care for the dead as much for the living, and she wasn’t going to leave his boy’s side.

He spoke with the priest, who assured him of the funeral plans. So many funerals… there were ten dead, not counting Young Jack. Old Jack was then sent to his home, where one of the cousins, he couldn’t tell which one in his grief, assured him the dogs and sheep were being cared for. The cousin helped him box up Jenna’s things, and Anna’s, and he told the cousin to take the things and burn them, give them away, use them for rags - he didn’t care so long as he didn’t see them again.

It hurt too much.

He saved Jenna’s favourite shirt and Anna’s doll, but that was all. He spent countless minutes stroking the shirt and cuddling the doll, tears leaking from his eyes and down his sore cheeks. His family. His family. His reason for living, and they were _gone_.

Only his son was left, dying by inches.

Old Jack limped back to the midwife’s house, and spent the rest of the day by his son’s side.

By the end of the day, the fever had broken. The priest came by, said things looked well, and told Old Jack that his wife and daughter would have their funerals by the end of the week. Three more days. In a way, it was a blessing that it was late spring. The ground had thawed, and no one needed to wait for burial.

Waiting dragged out the mourning process, they said. He didn’t know.

He slept again, curled around his boy, and by the next morning Young Jack was awake. Brenda fed him thin gruel and chicken broth, and Old Jack carried his boy over to the chamber pot so he could relieve himself. Young Jack cried silently, pain or grief or both, and went back to sleep when he was done.

Old Jack took himself off to find his sheep and dogs.

They were with Jackin, of all people. The sheep were oblivious to him, but the dogs were delighted to see him. Their enthusiasm dimmed when they got close; dogs were surprisingly empathetic for brute beasts. Somehow, someway, his grief eased with the dogs pressing up against his sides, licking his hands and chin.

Jackin promised to keep the sheep until Old Jack could return home, if he ever would. The good Lord only knew how he could, with Jenna and Anna gone.

He returned to the midwife’s, and Young Jack woke up. They talked, as Old Jack tried to explain the concept of death and Young Jack began to grieve.

The days blurred into each other. Young Jack continued to improve at a rate that at times impressed and worried Brenda, though the priest said that God had clearly extended His hand over Young Jack. They attended the funeral; it helped, in an odd way. It made things final. It still felt as though he’d lost a part of himself, but the wound was closed. All that was left was for time to turn it from raw and bleeding to some kind of scar.

Young Jack healed enough to come home. Old Jack collected his dogs, his sheep, and his boy, and moved back home. He re-learnt to cook; Jenna had only let him do so when she’d been too ill. His first attempts didn’t kill him or Young Jack, so he counted them a success. Neighbours and family brought around food, things that would tempt the appetite of man and boy.

He continued to sleep with Young Jack in his bed, needing the small body pressed up against his, the scent of young child, the sound of his breathing. Only with Young Jack there could he fall asleep, and stay asleep.

He woke, every morning, with a lump in his throat because Jenna was missing and Anna was gone. If not for Young Jack and the dogs, he didn’t think he’d have gotten out of bed some mornings. But his boy needed him and the dogs didn’t understand why their master was so sad, so up he got.

It helped.

He kept Young Jack with him, taking the boy out to the field with him and the sheep. He made sure to keep close to the village, and kept a wary eye out for wolves and strange dogs.

On one of his trips into the village, or perhaps when one of the neighbours was bringing by food, he heard that a wolf had been caught. It’d been killed, but it’d taken seven spears to the torso before it fell. The attacks stopped with the beast’s death.

Old Jack started sleeping outside with the sheep in the field. It was more comfortable; his house got too warm in the summer, and now with only Young Jack left, too lonely.

It was a good thing he did. The first full moon since the attack, his son… changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yup. Here's the prologue story for my Werewolf Jack fanfic idea. Four chapters seemed a bit much for a prologue In-Story, so it gets to be separate (and posted sooner.) Posting every Sunday.
> 
> Quick bit of Patricia Briggs Werewolf Lore - The change (into a werewolf) only happens if and when someone is hurt as unto death. At which point, they either die, or they are changed into a werewolf. Now, usually, this happens to adults, as willpower, strength both emotional and physical, and a number of other factors tend to apply. Sometimes, though... Someone younger is attacked and changed...


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for forgetting to post this on Sunday! (In my defense, Sunday isn't a day I normally work, and I worked it. Pity me.)

Young Jack screamed, and Old Jack bolted straight up from sleep and into nightmare.

His son had gotten away from him in the night, and was on hands and knees several feet away. His trousers and shirt were tearing at the seams, even as the boy screamed again. Pain, fear, rage - all blended together in a way that sent chills down Old Jack’s spine and made him grope for the shepherd’s crook at his side.

The moon was full and bright, and he could see things all too clearly. Young Jack’s skin shifted, and his hair rippled and began to spread down over his face and neck. After a point, Old Jack had to look away, just as his boy screamed again.

The scream turned into a roar, and Old Jack looked around just in time to see a - a juvenile wolf - leap at him.

Socks got there first. She slammed into the wolf pup at full speed, knocking the beast to the ground. She didn’t give the pup time to get his feet under him. Like a streak of dark lightning, she bit down on the back of the wolf’s neck and _shook_.

“No!” Old Jack held one hand out. The dog and wolf both stopped, and both looked at him. Socks whined, the sound muffled by the thick ruff of fur she held clamped in her teeth. The pup snarled, and was shook again, though gentler than the first time.

Old Jack looked from the shreds of his boy’s clothing, back to the wolf pup, and groaned in pain deeper than mere flesh and blood. A werwolf. His son was a _werwolf_. A beast, maddened by the light of the full moon and transformed into this _monster_ , driven to kill everything about him.

“No,” he whispered, and sobbed once.

Spot nudged against his shoulder, and whined. The wolf pup - his _son_ \- whined back. At that, Old Jack looked up just in time to see Socks lower the pup to the ground. She stood over him until he cowered down on his belly, tail tucked under and ears flattened in submission.

The pup then turned and crawled over to Old Jack, whining the entire time. The pup’s eyes, made dark and colorless by the moonlight, were nevertheless terrified - and intelligent.

“Jack?” he asked, and held one hand out. The pup nudged against his hand and whined. He found himself gathering the pup to himself as he would any frightened shepherd puppy, as he had done with Socks and Spot when they were young.

The wolf pup smelt the same as his boy.

Jack gasped and sobbed, and cradled the puppy to his chest. Oh, God. Why? Why?

He cried himself to sleep, puppy in his arms and with the two dogs standing guard.

He woke in the morning, still with a wolf puppy pressed close to him, on his back with his paws in the air. For the longest time, Old Jack stared at the puppy, unable to understand what it was doing there and why he was hugging it. Then he remembered, and sat up.

The pup - his _son_ \- woke up when he moved, and stared up at him from intelligent eyes the color of blood. His… fur… was a silvery-brown hue, similar to tree bark covered in frost. He was a rolly-polly bundle of paws and tail and ears that flopped over at the tips. His little fangs were bigger than a dog’s at that age, but perhaps that was true in all wolves. The pup - his _son_ \- still had his milk teeth, so perhaps that would change with age.

“Jack,” he said, and the pup stared up at him. “Jack. Change back.”

Young Jack whined, ears going back and eyes showing worry. Old Jack stroked a hand down the… pup’s… back, and then again just because the puppy fur was so soft. Young Jack relaxed under the touch, even began to wag his tail, and then closed his eyes and began to change.

He had to look away when there was neither fur nor skin covering the flesh beneath. The entire change took what felt like forever, but by the sun was only half an hour at most. At the end of it, his boy lay naked and sprawled on the ground, panting desperately for breath, whining in pain.

“Jack,” Old Jack said, and touched his boy’s shoulder. The boy flinched away.

“No,” he said, voice thin with pain. “Hurts, Da. Hurts.”

Old Jack nodded, and sat back on his heels, watching and waiting until Young Jack looked up and nodded.

“Doesn’t hurt now,” the boy said, and crawled over. “Da.”

“Hush now.” He gathered Young Jack up in his arms, cuddling him as a boy as he’d done with the puppy. “Hush now. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

He set the dogs to watch the flock, and hurried home with boy and the rags of Young Jack’s clothing. The rags he tossed aside, to be used for cleaning he supposed, and he dressed Young Jack in another set of trousers and shirt. His last pair of trousers, and second-to-last shirt. He’d either have to make more himself, or trade for it. He wasn’t sure which he would go with.

“Jack, what happened?” he asked, even as he readied breakfast for both of them. “What do you remember?”

The boy shrugged, and picked at the edge of the table. “The moon sang, Da. And then I hurt lots. And there was someone else in my head. He was very, very scared, Da. And he doesn’t know manners.” The boy wrinkled his nose. “Spot told him he was very naughty, and I told him you’re Da. He’s still here,” he added, and patted the side of his head.

Old Jack took a deep breath, and concentrated on the porridge he was making. “Is he? What’s he saying?”

Young Jack thought about it. “Scared,” he said. “Sad. Knows you’re Da, and scared because he wanted to bite. Bites when scared.” He nodded, and looked up at Old Jack. “Just like doggies.”

Yes. Just like doggies. “Jack… you’ve got a… a dog in your head?”

“Uh huh. Scared and sad doggie.” The boy picked at the edge of the table some more. “Doesn’t want to be bad. Just…” He shrugged, unable to find the words.

“I understand.” He did. How many sheepdogs had he raised and trained? When scared, they bit and clawed and fought, because they were brute beasts unable to _understand_ what was going on. They defended themselves.

He understood.

It didn’t explain the other werwolf, the one that had killed everyone, but it explained the puppy.

Perhaps age was a factor? Jack was young, and the wolf he’d turned into was young. He’d have said six, seven weeks, just going from size. The other werwolf had been an adult. Old Jack’s experience with dogs told him what happened, when a dog was allowed to grow up without rules. The dog became uncontrollable, attacking sheep, killing chickens, going after pigs and cows and anything that moved. It stood to reason werwolves were the same. Men, too; boys who’d been indulged and coddled and never taken to task for their childhood crimes grew up to do worse as adults.

A werwolf combined the worst of man and beast; the intelligence of a man, the savage nature of the beast, with no mercy, no compassion, no honour…

Old Jack realized his hands were shaking. He knew what he should, by rights, do. By God’s law, by mortal law…

But this was his son! His _son_. How could he turn his own son over to the soldiers and say “here is a werwolf, he needs to die”? How could _any_ man?

And how could he do anything but?

“Da?” Young Jack’s voice quavered. “Da, is something wrong?”

Yes. Everything.

“Jack,” he said, and turned around. Perhaps if he hadn’t looked at his little boy, he would have been able to say… what needed to be said. But no, his son was there, warm brown eyes wide and worried, brown hair - so much like Jenna’s hair, nothing like Old Jack’s pale blond - tousled, with a few blades of grass still caught in the tufts.

He moved over to the table, and knelt beside Young Jack’s chair. “Son. We have a problem. You’re a werwolf.”

Young Jack bit his lip, and whimpered. “A werwolf?”

“Yes. No one can know.” No. No one could ever know. “You know how the puppies are, when they’re young as your wolf?”

Young Jack nodded. “They dunno anything. Have’ta teach them.”

“Yes. So we will teach your wolf, to behave.” Old Jack nodded seriously. Yes. That was what they would do. “You’ll have to help me. You can talk to him. I can’t, not really. Think you can do that?”

Young Jack nodded, and the worry in his expression eased. “Yes, Da. He’s a _good_ puppy, just scared.” He patted his own cheek with one hand, and then squinted over at the porridge. “Breakfast is burning, Da.”

So began another month. Young Jack practiced turning into a wolf and back. Old Jack hated asking his son to do it; it was clear the change hurt, though after that first time the boy had stopped screaming. Every time, it took a full half hour before his son was fully switched from two legs to four, and back again. The disorientation between changes became less, until both boy and puppy knew what was going on the instant they opened their eyes.

He trained the wolf puppy as he would one of Socks’ litters. It helped that the wolf understood Old Jack’s words; Young Jack translating, perhaps, or just the beast’s blinding, near-human intelligence. The pup learnt the early commands in under a week; by two, he could sit, stay, and come when called with near perfect reliability. The few times he did not, Old Jack suspected was his son’s influence, and not the wolf. Young Jack was far too curious for his own good, and was easily distracted by a passing butterfly.

The one time the wolf pup tried to attack a sheep, Old Jack stepped back and let the flock’s ram handle the issue. The old male slammed into the pup’s side, and then in a clever twist and flick of his muzzle, sent the puppy flying. The wolf pup ran to hide behind Old Jack’s legs, and then whimpered his way through the following lecture. He was not seriously hurt; Old Jack checked his ribs, shoulders, and hips, and nothing was broken. When Young Jack changed back to human for the afternoon, there wasn’t even a bruise.

Old Jack did find that Young Jack was eating nearly everything in the house. If not for the gifts of food from his friends and family, there might have been issues. Hunger could drive even the best behaved dog into bad behaviour, and he didn’t want to think about what a hungry werwolf might do. Still, the largess would dry up within a season.

How was he to keep his son fed? He couldn’t slaughter his sheep. He needed the wool and milk to sell. The only cows hereabouts were beef stock, for the Lord. Everyone else drank sheep or goat milk, if they drank milk at all.

“We need a way to bring in more food,” Old Jack told his son one afternoon, after a morning practice session. The wolf had shown an aptitude for herding, and it would certainly keep the pup occupied.

Besides. Young Jack had his chores. It was only fitting for his wolf to have daily tasks as well.

“More veg’ables?” Young Jack suggested. “I can garden.”

“I don’t think that’ll be enough.” They _needed_ meat. The wolf hungered for it, and now Young Jack did as well. “Hunting? We can’t poach - they’ll kill me…”

Young Jack growled. “No!” He paused, and added, “ _Humans_ can’t hunt.”

“Jack-“

“Nuh, lissen! Wolf doesn’t care if something dead a long time.”

“Scavenging.” It had its advantages, he supposed, but its disadvantages too. “Do you think you can keep the wolf under control, if you do that?”

“Mmhm.” Young Jack nodded, and something - else - gleamed in his eyes. “Wolf loves you, an’ Socks, an’ Spot, an’ the sheep. Wolf won’t cause any trouble, Da, promise.”

Old Jack gave the boy an entire shepherd’s pie. The first time he’d found out what was in that pie, he’d vowed never to eat it again. The vow had lasted all of a week, but then, he’d been a very stubborn boy when he’d been Young Jack’s age.

“Alright,” he said.

Following that decision, the wolf went out scavenging. Old Jack worried, until village gossip confirmed that the pup was doing the intelligent thing and staying away from the village boundary. No one mentioned wild animals stealing from their garbage - not that anyone had much of that, here, unlike up at the Lord’s house. But there was always something that couldn’t be repaired, or had just been used up.

Rather, the gossip was on how the usual scavengers weren’t in evidence. No foxes, no ravens, even the rats seemed to have disappeared. The village cats were credited for the rats, but Old Jack knew better.

“The wolf is hunting, isn’t he?”

“Not _much_ ,” Young Jack protested. “Just rats.”

“And the foxes and ravens?”

Young Jack shrugged. “Foxes don’t like the wolf. And ravens don’t either. They’re avoiding him.”

He could hardly protest. And it did seem to have solved the food problem.

The next full moon came, and Young Jack was forced into the wolf. The wolf didn’t seem much pleased by said forcing; he paced back and forth the entire night, refusing to settle down to sleep. Old Jack did wonder, when he bedded down, if he trusted the beast too much. Only a madman would willingly sleep near a werwolf.

Considering he woke up the next morning with a cranky boy curled up in bed with him, he was trusting the wolf just enough.

“I don’t _like_ the moon,” Young Jack said. What followed was very nearly a tantrum, as much shouting as snarling. From what Old Jack could tell, the moon sang of death and blood to the wolf, who wasn’t much interested in going on a rampage, thanks all the same.

They had survived a month, with Young Jack a werwolf. Old Jack began to breathe easier, and relax.

The sheep were uneasy, and stayed bunched up in a tight group. The two dogs prowled around the flock, but their eyes were turned towards the distant forest. The wolf pup, as well, kept a wary eye on the trees. Every so often the pup’s upper lip would wrinkle back to show his sharp little fangs.

“What’s wrong?” Old Jack asked. He rested one hand on the pup’s head. Young Jack was growing, he realized. Sitting, his head was now just below the level of Old Jack’s hip. Even a month ago, he’d been smaller.

Wolves and dogs grew faster than men. He wondered how that would affect Young Jack’s human growth.

The pup growled, and put his ears back in warning.

At that moment, five… creatures… stalked out from the forest.

Werwolves, he knew. They weren’t dogs, and no real wolf moved like that. He held steady, one hand on his son’s head, and shepherd’s crook in the other.

There were five of them, and their coloring was more like a dog than a wolf. The one in the lead was a slender brindle, with the second a honey coloured beast with a white underbelly. The third was black, with white spots on one ear, haunches, and four white socks. The fourth and fifth were the mottled no-color of fifth-generation mutts.

In shape, they were more like Young Jack than the dogs. Young Jack, he’d noticed, had different shoulders than a dog or wolf; more like a cat or bear, able to swipe with his claws. It made his shoulders look a bit distorted, but the effect was made worse by these adults. They looked deformed, their forequarters not matching the rest of their bodies.

Young Jack growled at the five wolves, but stayed where he was. The incoming wolves made the occasional glance at the sheep and the dogs, but didn’t attack.

Good. Old Jack didn’t know what he’d have done to a wolf attacking his flock, but he would have done _something_.

The five wolves stopped in front of Old Jack, and stared at him. He met their gazes, one after the other, until he found himself caught in a staring contest with the lead wolf. The longer it went on the more uncomfortable he felt, but he steeled himself and forced himself to meet the wolf’s eyes. He couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure why, but if he did-

Ah, yes, that was it. If he looked away, he would cede dominance to this wolf. And to a werwolf, wouldn’t that make him prey?

The longer he stared down the werwolf, the more uneasy it got. Little things. The tilt of its ears, the eyes, the angle of its whiskers. All of Old Jack’s experience with dogs told him one thing; the wolf was uncomfortable.

One of the strange werwolves whined. Both Old Jack and the wolf he was staring down turned to look, ending the contest with no clear winner. The werwolf that had whined cringed down, though the lead wolf did nothing more than glare.

“Why are you here?” Old Jack asked. He pointed the crook of his staff at the lead wolf. “You are not welcome here.”

The wolf eyed the crook as though of a mind to bite, so Old Jack lifted the staff upright again. “Well?”

The werwolf glared, but began to shift. It took less time for him than it did for Young Jack; age, perhaps?

When the wolf was finished, he stood up. As a man, he was taller than Old Jack, but then most everyone was. His hair was red-blond, shoulder length and flowing nicely into a clipped beard. His shoulders were very broad, his hips narrow, and he was all over muscle. He seemed not to care about his nudity, though his cheeks were flushed. Anger or pain, not embarrassment.

Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about. Even unclothed, he looked more like a noble should than the one that ruled this area. Old Jack felt very ragged in comparison, but didn’t let it show.

“That,” the wolf said, and pointed at Young Jack, “belongs to me.”

Old Jack didn’t twitch. He tightened his grip on Young Jack’s fur. “Your German is atrocious, sir,” he said. “I believe you have misspoke.”

The wolf growled at him, the sound no less frightening for coming from a human throat. “I do not. That werewolf belongs to me. One of my pack made him.”

One of his… Old Jack blinked, it seemed, and everything had changed. He had brought the shepherd’s crook down on the human-shaped wolf’s shoulder at an angle. He felt the shock of the contact in his arms. And Young Jack…

The wolf was screaming, and clutched the bloody ruin of his groin with one hand. His other arm flopped uselessly; the collarbone had broken. The four other wolves moved in, but Old Jack spun and lashed out with his shepherd’s crook. Young Jack latched onto the biggest of the four remaining wolves, snarling with rage.

Old Jack knocked one of the wolves back, stuck the butt of his staff between another wolf’s legs and snapped it up into the soft groin - more screaming - and the third hesitated long enough for him to spin the staff around and get the crook around the wolf’s neck. He heaved, and the wolf went to the ground.

He tuned to help Young Jack with the fourth wolf, but it was backing off under the boy’s attack. The adult wolf had no ears left, only ragged stumps that bled freely. Slashes across his muzzle and on his cheeks showed where Young Jack had focused his attention.

“Enough, Jack,” he said, and the boy stopped stalking his opponent.

Old Jack turned back to the lead wolf, deliberately putting his back to the other wolves, and placed the butt of his staff against the man’s throat. “Your wolf killed my wife,” he said. He almost did not recognize his own voice. Who was he, to speak with such cold anger? “My daughter. My cousins. Your wolf gutted _my son_ and nearly _killed_ him.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “Your wolf terrorized my village, and my neighbouring villages. Or, perhaps, wolves. There was more than one.” He pressed a little against the man’s throat. “Tell me why I should not kill you right now.”

The wolf growled, and didn’t meet his eyes. “Those were renegades. They are all dead now. But my new wolf _must_ come with me. He cannot control his wolf-“

“He does.” Old Jack increased the pressure, just a bit. “I do. We do not need you and yours.” He allowed himself a grim little smile. “We would be better off if your pack had died years ago.”

Young Jack growled, and pressed up against Old Jack’s legs. He stared down at the man, who stared back with shock and growing horror.

“Omega,” he whispered, and his gaze darted to the other four wolves. “No wonder…” He muttered something under his breath in an odd, vaguely Germanic language, similar enough to be utterly alien.

“Pay attention to _me_ ,” Old Jack said, and thumped the man in the throat with his staff. The man coughed and gaged, and glared at him. “You are not taking my son. Now leave.”

The man looked as though he would argue, so Old Jack thumped him again - on the broken collarbone. He felt a little bad at the man’s choked off gasp, but not badly enough to apologize. Or keep from doing it again, if he stayed.

He watched until the man turned back into a wolf, bleeding and limping. The five werwolves slunk off.

Old Jack waited until they were gone in the trees before acting. He summoned the dogs and set everyone off towards home. Young Jack kept close, so close that he kept bumping up against Old Jack’s knee as they walked.

He shut the sheep into the yard, and gestured for the dogs to go on guard.

“Stay as a wolf, watch for those wolves.” He took a deep breath, and rubbed his forehead. A story, a story… yes, that would work.

Now, who to talk to first, which cousin should he sell his sheep to?

John, he decided. John would do. He’d sell the sheep for as little as he could afford to; John’s youngest son already had three, he’d be delighted with a full flock. And he had two of Socks’ get for sheepdogs. That would work.

He would take Young Jack and his dogs, and run, as so many did when prosecuted by a noble.

England, he thought, or further than that. If he ran far enough, they would leave his son alone.

So it was best to get started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation time for werewolves.
> 
> Dominance - Very important for werewolves in Patricia Briggs' series. The most dominant wolf in the pack is the Alpha, who protects and rules his pack. Any order he gives - order, not suggestion - _must_ be followed, and is backed up by magical clout. (In her series, a lot of werewolves go into military or paramilitary, just because the rank and orders make sense.) Werewolves can usually tell how dominant someone is - either very dominant, or very submissive - within a few minutes. If there's a question, though, there's usually a fight.
> 
> Old Jack staring down the werewolf Alpha? Yeah. Old Jack is a very dominant human. Or an omega, which brings me to...
> 
> Omegas - There are three types of wolves. Dominants (hyper-controlling and aggressive, part of their 'protect the pack' drive) that are driven to dominate, protect, and attack each other. Dominants are best described as being on a hair trigger, pretty much constantly. Submissive werewolves, on the other hand, are 1) rare, because the humans that end up submissive wolves don't survive the change very well (werewolves typically have strong wills and stubbornness issues, something that is, by nature, somewhat lacking in submissive werewolves) and 2) precious and valued members of the pack because, although they're always at the bottom of the hierarchy and have to follow everyone's orders, they're also safe for a dominant to let their guard down around, because a submissive doesn't have that 'kill the weak' drive dominants have.
> 
> Omegas are completely outside the pack structure, able to out-alpha the Alpha, or be even more submissive than the lowest of the pack... sometimes in the same minute. They don't follow orders, they make everyone be uber-protective of them, and they have the magic ability to calm any werewolf's inner wolf down and make it 'take a nap' which otherwise... doesn't happen. Ever.
> 
> Humans tend to be, at least in Patricia Briggs' universe, either dominant, submissive, or omega from birth, but being turned werewolf dials it up to eleven. While dominant werewolves survive the change more than submissive, it is very, very hard for any werewolf to attack an omega. They typically need to be insane, or the omega needs to be dying in a way that means the change is the only way to save their life.
> 
> You can figure out which type attacked Jack.
> 
> Sorry if this got wordy, I figured I'd answer any possible questions before I get the same one five or a dozen times. -smiles innocently-


	3. Chapter Three

Old Jack hurried after his son. “Jack, you stop and listen to me. Just stop.”

He wasn’t sure which of them jerked to a halt at the order, wolf or boy, but one of them did. When Young Jack turned and looked up at him, it was the wolf looking back, from blood red eyes.

“Don’t you want us?” Young Jack demanded. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. “Don’t you - It’s because of _me_ , isn’t it?”

At that, he knew he was dealing entirely with the wolf. “No,” he said, and caught his boy by the shoulders. “No. Now you _listen_ to me. Listen. I love you. Both of you. You are my _son_.”

Young Jack sniffed, and ducked his head, brown flecks mixing with the red. Good, they were both heeding him. “I _love_ you. You will _always_ be my son. A new child will not change that.” He stroked his son’s hair, so he leaned into the touch. “Jack… you are going to be an _older brother_. You’re going to have a little brother or sister to teach, to love, to protect. How can this be a bad thing?”

Young Jack sniffed, and launched himself forward. “I’m sorry Da! I just - I just-“

“A new wife and a new baby on the way. How could you not?” He hugged Jack close, and then cleared his throat. “Now that you know better…”

“I’ll be careful,” the boy promised. “We’ll make sure not to hurt the baby.”

If it had been any other werwolf saying that, Old Jack wouldn’t have believed it. Well, he wouldn’t have let any other werwolf near his new wife and eventual baby, either. But Young Jack and his wolf had an unusual relationship, to the point where he wasn’t always aware when the wolf was in control and when Jack was.

Ah, it didn’t matter anyways.

“Stay safe,” he said, and looked over at the forest. So far there had been no werwolves, but he couldn’t help the fear. “Be home by evening, Grace is making your favourite.”

“Beef and new potatoes?” Young Jack’s eyes shone with eagerness. Grace’s campaign to win Young Jack over through his stomach seemed to be working. “Oh, yum! I’ll be home in plenty of time, Da.”

“Good boy. Go play, now.”

Young Jack nodded, and continued on across the field. At the edge of the trees he stripped out of his clothes and shifted. Old Jack stayed to watch, because during the change was the only time his son was vulnerable. When the silver-brown wolf stood up and yipped at him, he turned away.

America. Land of the free, or so they claimed. So far, Old Jack hadn’t seen much to disabuse said claim.

And there were no werwolves, to try to steal his son away.

Grace raised her eyebrows at him when he entered their small home. “Well?”

“He was misunderstanding why the child,” he said, in his heavily accented English. The new language did not come easy to his tongue, though he no longer fumbled helplessly at the words. “I explained, so now he goes to play.”

Grace kissed him, and gave him the quick, ‘ploughman’s lunch’ she’d been making before Young Jack stormed out. “The sheep won’t wait forever.”

“No,” he agreed, and headed out the door.

Once he’d settled down on a low hill, watching over his flock of sheep, he found his thoughts turning back to his flight from Germany. He hadn’t known then, and still didn’t know, if that first pack had chased him. After he’d sold his sheep to John - explaining that he had somehow been accused of poaching, because a sheep had wandered into the forest, and was leaving before he could lose a hand - he’d taken his son and his dogs, and gone to England. But there had always been another werwolf pack, and another, until he’d finally accepted the inevitable and bought a charter from England to America.

A lone wolf had tried to stop him on the docks, but Young Jack had shoved the man into the water, only to fall in himself. That was when they learnt that werwolves could not swim. Though Young Jack knew _how_ , he’d sunk all the same.

It had been difficult, borderline impossible to keep his son’s secret while on the ship. It had been two months, three full moons, to cross the great ocean. But somehow, they’d managed, and come out in the city of New Amsterdam. From there, he had decided to take his son to the wilds claimed by some Englishman, something-or-other Pennsylvania. There, a shepherd with only three sheep - two ewes and a ram, bought with the very last of his money - could make a living.

Young Jack had been forced to hunt for their food, but there were no nobles to claim the forests and all that lived within. For a full year they had lived in the tiniest of shacks, eating wild-foraged plants and everything from field rats, to rabbits, to squirrels. The two ewes had somehow both had twins; Old Jack had traded the single male lamb to one of the local farmers for two chickens. Young Jack had often been left with the sheep while Old Jack worked on a farm or with the village woodcutter for a bit of extra coin. Every coin had gone to buying a new sheep, or blankets, or clothing.

The second year they’d had a bit of vegetable garden, a very small flock of nine sheep for wool and milk, an equally small flock of five hens and one rooster, and Young Jack had begun to get very, very strong.

In part of training his son’s new strength - the boy had been seven, and lifting weights that would have challenged a grown man - they’d worked on a new home, making it out of the oak that was so plentiful here. They had made it only a single room, at the time, a large square with the four corners anchored by posts eleven feet long - four feet of which had been sunk into the ground, below the frost line - and were thicker than his hand was long. The walls had been made of wooden planks only a little thinner than the posts, covered in shingles made of the aromatic cedar Young Jack had fallen in love with. The floor had not been left as bare, packed earth, but covered in pine planks, sanded until they were smooth as silk. The roof had a sharp pitch to shed snow, more cedar shingles, and the attic space beneath served as storage. Not that they had anything, then, to store.

By the third year, Socks had puppies, and Old Jack had trained up the dogs and sold them. That had gotten them enough by way of money that he’d been able to buy them new clothes, as his sewing ability was barely adequate for repairing tears and putting on patches. For the first time in years, they’d had new clothes, with no holes.

That same year, Young Jack gave him something of a surprise, revealing he’d made friends among the native Indians, and that they had been teaching him to hunt bigger prey.

Old Jack explained the resulting furs, brought in by his wolf-son, as a trap line. The furs brought them more money, when he didn’t turn them into blankets and rugs for the bed in winter. The meat, they kept to eat - Young Jack’s appetite remained as big as ever - or traded to their neighbours.

And then - ah, then - he met Grace.

She was from some group called the Quakers or Shakers, he knew not which. He didn’t understand the religion, and she had left it, and her home village, when she’d turned eighteen - an old maid by then. She’d moved to the little settlement Old Jack lived in, and gotten work helping at the general store.

Old Jack had been as helpless before Grace’s beauty as an old wolf meeting a slender, young thing. He had paid her court, and driven his son to eye rolling exasperation when he got started on poetry. There had been no father to approach, so he’d asked her directly.

They had wed early in the year, and that was when Grace found out about Young Jack. They had tried to keep it a secret, but a bear had gone after one of the dogs that autumn, and Young Jack had forced his change and attacked.

As a result, Spot had been retired to family pet instead of working dog, the limp keeping him forever from the field, and Grace had been confronted with a werwolf.

She had taken it well, in Old Jack’s opinion. No fainting, no hysteria, just a simple question of whether Young Jack would hunt the injured bear and make sure it didn’t suffer.

They’d eaten bear meat the entire winter, even after trading away the extra.

And now, Grace was pregnant. Old Jack sighed, fully content with his life. He missed Jenna still, and Anna, but he’d grieved. They were dead, and he was alive, and Grace was here. He loved her, not the same way as he’d loved Jenna, but the same strength, the same depth of feeling. And the new child… ah, a father could have many children, and love them all.

Life, he thought, was good.

* * *

 

Little Emily squealed, and one of the dogs let out a quiet grunt. “Nicely,” Grace said, not looking up from her sewing. Old Jack smiled down at his carving.

“Si’ber!”

What? Old Jack looked up then - and froze in sudden, horrified fashion.

Emily was not trying to maul any of the dogs, oh no. He would have felt nothing but quiet amusement if that were so.

She was trying to maul Young Jack’s wolf.

The beast was now bigger than either of the dogs, and still with the gangly legs and oversized paws of puppy-hood. One blood-red eye was cracked open, the better to regard the toddler yanking on his ruff. The wolf seemed amused, or at least, relaxed, but even the best natured of dogs could get annoyed by an energetic child. An admonitory nip did more damage to soft skin than fur.

“Jack,” he said, and set his knife aside. “I’ll get her.”

Grace sucked in a breath, having finally looked up. “Emily. _Nicely_.”

Emily turned to consider her parents, giggled, and then grabbed Young Jack’s ear and _yanked_. Young Jack grunted, and turned his head to ease the pressure on his ear. He met Old Jack’s gaze, snorted, and then closed his eye.

Emily giggled again, and smacked Young Jack’s forehead in the toddler’s version of petting. Young Jack made a satisfied sound, and rumbled low in his throat. At first Old Jack thought it was a growl, but after a minute, he came to the realization that it sounded more like a cat’s purr.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked the wolf.

Young Jack thumped his tail on the floorboards twice, before submitting to Emily’s ministrations with another pleased growl.

* * *

 

“Silver! Silver!”

Old Jack could barely hear Emily’s screams; Young Jack stopped dead mid-step, and then whirled and bolted back up the lane. He’d hit full speed within three strides, and ran faster than Old Jack could.

Not that Old Jack was any slouch, even now. He flew after his son, shepherd’s crook in hand, as fast as his aging legs could carry him.

“ _Silver_!”

Old Jack rounded a bend in the lane, and the trees no longer blocked his view. Emily was struggling with an old man. The man was trying to drag her off, while she was clawing at his hand, kicking at his shins, and screaming her head off.

Young Jack saw the man, too. He snarled, very near a roar, loud enough the man heard it over Emily’s screams.

The man looked up, and saw Death charging down at him. He paled, and shoved Emily away, but by then it was too late.

Old Jack didn’t watch his son kill - oh, God - but fell to his knees beside his daughter. “Emily, Emily! Dear Lord - are you hurt? Did he hurt you? What possessed you to come out here alone?” He caught her about the shoulders and pulled her close. She sobbed into his shoulder, and babbled a confused rendition of “Da” and “Silver” and “Jack” and “bad man”.

Old Jack crooned and rocked her back and forth. He heard the quiet thud of Young Jack’s paws in the dirt; deliberate noise, to keep from startling anyone. He looked up, and swallowed hard.

It was sometimes easy to forget that Young Jack turned into a wolf, not a dog. The wolf generally moved with the faint clumsiness most large dogs suffered, and was as mild mannered with little Emily as ever a parent could wish. As he’d left puppy-hood, he’d taken Spot’s place as sheepdog, and acted the part beautifully.

It was not possible, at the moment, to forget that he was looking at a wolf. Blood dripped from Young Jack’s muzzle, which was wrinkled and twisted to show all of his oversized fangs in their glory. His ears were pinned back, his fur bristled along his neck and back, and rage made his eyes glow like rubies.

Young Jack growled low in his throat, and walked stiff legged over to Old Jack and Emily. Old Jack prepared to shove Emily away and put himself between the wolf and his daughter. Young Jack had just killed a man. No sanity showed in his eyes. The werwolf had been quiet, but blood had awakened the beast-

Or not. Young Jack sniffed the air, and stopped snarling. He blinked, looked from Emily to Old Jack and back again, and huffed. Then he sat down and gave Old Jack a very clear look.

_“Well, that happened. Now what?”_

Old Jack nearly laughed, and stood up. The man who’d attacked Emily - he recognized the man, now that he wasn’t racing for his daughter’s life. Young Jack had only torn out the man’s throat, as any large dog might. Old Carson was a stubborn old trapper without a kind word to say to anyone in the village, was suspected of stealing the odd bit of clothing or food, and everyone knew that he stole game from trap lines.

What could Carson have wanted with his little girl? Nightmare scenarios ran through his head, and Old Jack held her tighter.

“We need to get someone,” he mumbled. “The- the priest?” Young Jack moved close, and Old Jack braced himself on his son’s shoulder as he stood up. “Stay close, Jack.”

“Silver,” Emily mumbled, and peered carefully up at Old Jack. “Wolf Silver. Not Jack.”

“They’re the same person,” he told her, and caught up his staff. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They stumbled to the village, Emily in his arms and Young Jack - Silver - at his side. They were all of them shaking in reaction.

Old Jack’s neighbour, William, raised the outcry when they came into view. Someone went for Grace, who came running, and after hugging Emily set to fussing over Young Jack like the hero he was. She wiped the blood from his muzzle with one of her handkerchiefs, rubbed behind his ears, and if she cried, well, that was understandable.

A small gang of men went charging back down the lane, no doubt to make sure of Carson’s body. The village priest - Old Jack couldn’t remember his name at the moment - rested one hand on Young Jack’s head.

“This is a very devoted dog,” he said.

Young Jack wagged his tail in tiny arcs, acting the part of a good natured but worried dog. The priest stroked his head several times, before turning to Old Jack.

“Tell me what happened.”

Old Jack explained, from the first moment he’d heard Emily scream, to Young Jack - though he used Emily’s name for the wolf, Silver - getting to Carson first, and… well. The stains on Young Jack’s muzzle spoke for itself.

By then, Emily had calmed enough to tell the priest her version of events. “Mama sent me to tell Da… I don’t remember. But she sent me to tell Da, and Mr. Carson was on the lane. I went over to one side and said good morning, and he said I was getting very pretty, and then he grabbed my arm and started pulling. I screamed for Silver, because Silver has better ears.”

She paused, and sniffed back tears. “Silver came really fast, and Da was right with him, and Mr. Carson’s dead, isn’t he?”

The priest sighed, and nodded. “It would seem that he is.” He looked up at Old Jack. “You should give that dog a beef dinner.”

Young Jack looked interested at _that_. “We’ll see,” Old Jack said, and gave his son a warning look.

* * *

 

“Da, are you sure you don’t need it?” Young Jack turned the old shepherd’s crook over and over in his hands, and then twirled it like a quarterstaff.

“Not in the house. Who do you think you are, one of Robin’s Merry Men?” Old Jack ran the stone over the length of wood again, and hummed. “You’re old enough for it. Getting creaky in my knees. Takes a young man to be a shepherd.”

“You’re _sure_?” Young Jack repeated. His eyes gleamed with excitement and flecks of red. Young Jack and Silver both were excited by their new responsibility.

Ah, to be fourteen again. “I’m sure. In another year or two, I can give you some sheep, get you started…”

“No.” Young Jack hunched his shoulders. “No, I - I want to stay here. At home.”

Old Jack stopped smoothing out his new staff. “You’re sure about that?” he asked. Most young men his son’s age were getting interested in girls, in their apprenticeships, in moving out.

Then again, Young Jack wasn’t most men.

“Yes,” he said, and looked around. Grace and Emily were out, some female gathering over laundry and gossip. Even so, Young Jack looked nervous. “I want to stay.”

“I’m not going to throw you out.” Old Jack set the smoothing rock and new staff aside. “There something you want to talk to me about?”

“Not… want…” Young Jack whined, the wolf showing through even more. “Da, there’s a problem.”

Old Jack nodded, and headed out the door. “Come on. Need to check on the sheep, anyways.”

Old Socks twitched an ear at them, but remained stretched out by the cold fireplace. He’d retired her three years back, and it’d suited her. He’d kept the best and brightest of her pups, and Young Jack had brought in a puppy given to him by his native friends. The dogs were out watching the flock at the moment; they wouldn’t gossip about whatever Young Jack had to tell them, and there was more privacy out in the field.

They settled down with the flock between them and the village, the trees at their back. “Talk to me, son.”

Young Jack set his staff aside. “I - I don’t think I _can_ leave. You. Grace. Emily. It - you’re Silver’s pack and he gets… upset… at the idea.”

Upset. Old Jack didn’t want to think about _what_ an upset werwolf might do. “You can stay as long as you like, son. You know that. Both of you know that. Can go into part ownership of the flock with me, if that’s what you want. Put on a bit of an addition so that you and the wife-“

“There isn’t.” Young Jack flushed, and stared down at his hands with blood red eyes. “A girl, I mean. That I’m interested in.”

“Well, you’re young-“

“There’s a boy.” Young Jack gulped and cringed.

Old Jack clamped down, _hard_ , on his knee-jerk reaction. A boy? A _boy_? “How do you mean,” he asked, slow and careful, “A boy?”

“I - I mean…” Young Jack panted nervously, and the skin over his cheeks was tight and covered in fine brown hairs. “I mean, there’s a… a boy. That I’ve been thinking about. Girls are - well, they’re girls, but they’re not… interesting. To me. Like that.” He shivered, and dug his fingers into the dirt. It didn’t hide his nails, long and black and dangerous.

“You’ve been thinking of a boy the way you should be thinking of a girl,” Old Jack said, still slow and careful. His son was upset, but more to the point, the wolf was upset. The wolf was, however smart, still an animal. If Old Jack wasn’t careful, Silver would lash out. He’d feel sorry for it after, but that’d do little to mitigate the damage.

“Yes,” Young Jack whispered.

There were those who said shepherds were the next best thing to pagan. Old Jack attended church faithfully, but that was because he’d had his dogs to keep the sheep in place while he headed off for half a Sunday. Even then, when it’d been lambing season, he’d stayed with the flock, not in church.

Long hours in a field gave a man long hours to think, and turn over ideas and concepts. Some of what Old Jack thought was probably heretical, if you went by the church’s strict rules. Wasn’t that why there’d been all those divisions?

The priest said that a marriage was to be between one man and one woman, but that wasn’t how it’d always been in the good book. Old Jack certainly wasn’t a priest or scholar, to read the book and judge for himself. For that matter, he couldn’t even read, not German, not English, and not the Latin the book was written in.

Even so, he did his thinking and he had his opinions, and to his mind a marriage between an abusive man and his helpless wife surely was not blessed in the eyes of the Lord. Had he not said love, and not hate?

It was hard to stay objective. The church said one thing, and his poor son needed him to say another. “Do you think it’s being a werwolf?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Young Jack admitted. “I don’t know if it’s from me, or Silver, or both of us. I don’t know.”

“And you’ve… tried, to be interested in girls?”

Young Jack nodded. “We both had, it just… we’re just not.”

Well. Well, that was it, then, wasn’t it? “You know that no one would accept such a… union. But then, they wouldn’t accept a werwolf either?”

Young Jack nodded again. “I’d have to hide it… I’ve _been_ hiding it.” He looked sad, though. Well, fair enough.

He’d never have children. He’d never have a wife. Any relationship he did start, he’d have to hide, and he was hiding enough as it was. There would be suspicion, eventually, inevitably, and when that happened… well. Maybe nothing official would be done, but the unofficial would be bad enough.

Old Jack took a deep breath, and let it out. With it, he let go of the wisp of dream, of grandchildren with Jenna’s eyes and Anna’s smile. So be it.

“I’m not throwing you out.” He clapped one hand on Young Jack’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad, whoever you end up sharing a bed with.”

Young Jack smiled, and ducked his head. “Thanks, Da. I won’t make trouble for you.”

“I know you won’t. Ah…” Well. He’d be eaten up by curiosity otherwise. “Who, ah, who…?”

“No one you’d know.” Humour showed in Young Jack’s eyes. “He’s in the native village, not… And his parents don’t mind, they view things differently.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Two men together, or two women, will always have enough to take in orphaned children.” Young Jack shrugged. “I would like to raise a kid, or two. Maybe, well, maybe…?”

“I don’t see why not. Silver’s fond of the children in the village.” Snuck off in the evenings to go play pony and fetch with them, in fact. _Fond_ was maybe not the right word. _Adoring_ came close. Worship was probably hitting the nail on the head.

Young Jack laughed, and stood up. “I’ll stay and watch the sheep. Ah, in fur? Getting close to the full moon.”

“Fur’s good enough. Get on with it, boy, I don’t have all day for you to change.”

He stayed, as he always did, until Silver stood up and shook the change from his fur. The wolf grinned at him, and in an uncommon show of trust, shoved his head under Old Jack’s arm.

“Ah, you’re a good boy,” Old Jack said, and used Young Jack’s shoulder to push himself up. The wolf had finally stopped growing, at least, almost five feet at his misshapen shoulders and six feet from nose to hips. He weighed more than Old Jack did, even though Young Jack was still an inch or two shorter than his father as a human.

Perhaps, in a way, it was good Young Jack was interested in other lads. It’d be a rare woman able to tolerate having a beast like Silver in her bed one night a month, let alone love both sides of her husband. Another man would, like as not, never find out, since they wouldn’t be able to share a bed for very long.

“I’ll be back at home,” he told the wolf. “Bring the sheep back in time for supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory time skip later... Colonists to the new world had it rough, yes, but I do think the Overland family had it rougher, arriving penniless and with a growing werewolf son to feed. On the other hand, Old Jack is Papa Dominant and isn't going to just lay down and a) let his son be taken or b) fail to thrive in their new circumstances.
> 
> Also, before anyone goes all "But homosexuality wasn't tolerated back then!" you're right, it wasn't. Young Jack, though, is a werewolf, an 'unnatural' creature. It wouldn't be beyond the realm of imagination for Old Jack to go "Unnatural creatures = unnatural lust towards own gender" because that would have made sense at the time. If a then b = c: if only bad people get the plague and John is a bad man... if two men being in love is unnatural and Young Jack's an unnatural werewolf...
> 
> Fun fact: Patricia Brigg's universe, gay (and lesbian) werewolves tend to be killed off quickly. (Assuming on the lesbian, because it hasn't come up yet.) Gay wolf gets aroused at another male, the other werewolves can smell it, fights break out... Needless to say, a gay man either isn't turned, doesn't survive the turn, gets killed off quickly, or goes lone wolf which can drive them to suicide or madness. (Warren, the gay wolf in the books, is Bad. Ass. More importantly, able to kick ass, and is third in the main character's pack... and dominant enough to be _second_.)
> 
> Another fun fact: It seems to be canon that in the late 1600's, early 1700's, werewolves weren't in America very much. They're an 'old world' creature like Vampires and the Fae. Does that mean there were none? No, doesn't mean that, but it does mean that America was a good place, at the time, to vanish from the werewolves' control. (I'm extrapolating; for anyone else who reads the books, what do you think? Bran is old, but Charles is only 200 years and he was born in America...? Thoughts? Am I way off, you think, or dead on?)


	4. Chapter Four

Old Jack urged the donkey on, feeling the long hike in his own bones. It was a long way over to Allentown, and never mind coming back. But it was the closest town with anything like a market for furs. Young Jack’s ‘trap line’ continued to bring in the money, but of late it’d been better to take the furs to town. Everyone in the village - and the villages nearby - had more than enough by now. Everyone knew that, so no one begrudged the Overland’s their relative prosperity.

Young Jack had tried going to Allentown, once. He’d come back frazzled, red eyed and barely able to talk, and he’d spent the following week as a wolf out in the woods.

Better for Old Jack to go and sell the furs. Even if he was getting a bit old for the trip.

It was a safe enough trip, at least. One day there, a day to make the sale, and a day back. No riding; he didn’t know how and the little donkey wasn’t trained for it. Ah well, his legs were old, but sound.

He looked forward to getting home. A bath to get rid of travel dirt, Grace’s shepherd’s pie, or maybe she’d have a roast of some kind or other in the oven. His own bed. His children; Emily was just turned eleven, and Young Jack, nineteen. No doubt the children had brought some kind of wild animal into the house, trying to make it a pet. For a werwolf, Young Jack was quite fond of cuddling what should have been his prey.

Of late, the boy had been concentrating his ‘trap line’ on moose and deer, needing the sheer volume of meat because of the wolf. Fox and martin were trapped because they preyed on the village chickens and the tame rabbits raised for the pot. Coyotes, quail, and wild turkeys were hunted as well. Bear, well, only if the bear got too close to the village, but the fur was quite nice. A boar once, escaped from one of the farmers and gone wild and nasty. _That’d_ been interesting. Young Jack had actually gotten a bit hurt by the boar, though he’d healed as fast as he ever did.

Old Jack amused himself with visions of pet squirrels and wild rabbits, and pleading expressions. Emily had learnt how to mimic her brother’s ‘puppy dog eyes’, though Young Jack’s would always be more effective. He could always just turn into the wolf and make a begging face that way.

The donkey picked up its pace a bit, some scent or sound telling it they were near the village, and thus, home. Old Jack looked up from the road, looking for silver-brown fur, or a gangly looking young man come out to meet him.

Nothing. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Young Jack had missed meeting his father on the road. Still, it put an uncomfortable feeling in Old Jack’s stomach, as it always did. It wouldn’t settle until he’d seen his boy and checked that he was okay. The curse of having a werwolf for a son, he supposed. There was always the fear that someone would hurt his boy.

They made it all the way back to the village’s tavern, where the donkey lived, before Old Jack saw _anyone_.

“Jack.” The priest, Father Isaac, moved forward. “Jack… come here. Give the beast over to… yes, there’s a man. Come. Sit. I have bad news.”

Old Jack sat down on the bench. Took the tankard of ale someone pressed into his hands. “What news?” he asked. The sheep? Grace? Emily? Not Jack - Jack healed so quickly that when he’d broken his leg, they’d just set it and not told anyone. He’d been up and about in two days, fully healed by seven.

“Young Jack,” Father Isaac said.

The priest spun a story that - no. Impossible. “But I checked the ice,” he said. “I _checked_. It shouldn’t have broken.”

“I’m sorry. It did.” Father Isaac patted his shoulder. “Your son got Emily off the ice, but fell in. He… he didn’t come up. Some of the men tried to go diving for him, but… I’m sorry, Jack. It’d been too long by the time Emily got up to the village, we couldn’t let them go in.”

“But - but he-“ He bit off what he was going to say. He couldn’t say Young Jack was a werwolf. It wouldn’t help, and it would only cause trouble. “You’re _sure_?”

Father Isaac patted his shoulder again, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

He shoved away from the bench and dropped the tankard to the ground. “I must go home.” He couldn’t stay. Not here, with people not his family. He had to go.

“Alright. Do you-“

But he was already gone, walking faster and faster until he was running up the lane to his house, set away from the village just enough for privacy.

Grace and Emily were waiting for him, and their expressions told him all he needed to know.

They cried, the three of them, grief filling the house. It was evening when they could stop, and by then Old Jack had made a decision.

“I must get him out of the lake.”

“But it’s still so cold.” Grace got his cloak down off its peg, but didn’t give it to him. “You’ll freeze.”

“If I don’t now, someone will the instant the ice melts. And they might find…” He stopped, and gulped. “He might have transformed.”

Emily sucked in a breath, and clapped both hands over her mouth. “His eyes were red,” she whispered.

“There, you see? I must.” Old Jack caught up his new staff, and shoved down a surge of grief. There was something else, something he didn’t dare mention. He would not raise false hope in Grace, or Emily. But Young Jack was a werwolf, and every injury before this, he healed from.

Perhaps…

He headed out to the lake. Grace followed, arms piled high with his cloak, a change of clothes, and several blankets. The lake was just inside the woods, a sheer-sided hill of rock and earth to one side, and a gravel shore around the rest. It was frozen over, except for one spot in the center where the water was slowly freezing over again.

“There?” he asked, and pulled off his shirt. The wool would keep him warm, even when wet, but it would also weigh him down.

“Yes,” Grace told him. “Be careful. I… I can’t lose a husband and a son in one day.”

Old Jack nodded, and walked slowly out onto the ice. It creaked and groaned under his weight, but Young Jack was heavier; perhaps that was it. Young Jack had not been the one to help test the ice. The extra three, four stone of weight must have been too much.

The edges of the broken ice cracked under Old Jack’s weight, so he dropped down onto all fours. It felt very vulnerable like this, crawling along the ice. He doubted Young Jack could have ever brought himself to do this. The wonder was that he’d controlled his fear enough to use his staff and get Emily to safety.

At the open water, Old Jack looked back once, and waved to Grace. Then he dove in.

The water was cold, and dark, and he felt fear rise up and swallow him whole. Old Jack was an old hand at dealing with fear, though. He swam down, in as straight a line as he could manage, keeping the brighter spot of the open hole above his feet.

The lake was not so very big. In the summer he had taught Emily to swim, and amused his children by diving to the bottom to bring up handfuls of river muck and weed.

The cold sapped his strength. Halfway down, he was forced to swim back up and gasp for air. Each breath was like knives in his throat and lungs, but he forced the pain away and dove again.

It took two more tries, and on the second attempt he had a bad moment. He came up under the ice instead of at the hole, and spent far too long running his hands over the ice, trying to find the hole.

Then, on the third try, his searching fingers tangled in human hair.

_Mostly_ human hair.

He caught Young Jack under the body, and swam up, dragging the heavy body to the surface. Once there, he managed to heave his boy up onto the ice, and crawl up himself. The breeze cut his bare, wet skin like a thousand knives, and he was shaking the instant he was up out of the water.

He’d thought the water cold. He knew nothing about the cold. The air was worse. He caught hold of Young Jack’s shirt collar and pulled him across the ice. Somehow he managed to keep in a straight line to Grace, but it was a good thing the ice was solid enough for his weight. He would never have made it if he’d crawled.

Grace dried him off with one of the blankets, and forced his unresponsive limbs into the shirt, and the cloak over his head. She pulled off his soaked trousers, and helped him into dry ones. He only had the one pair of boots, but at least he’d taken them off before swimming.

Grace wrapped him up in several blankets, and helped him put Young Jack on another blanket. Together, they hauled the body back to the house.

Once there, Grace built up the fire and had him sit down next to it. She dragged Young Jack over to the hearth, and only then did they collapse.

Emily had fallen asleep at the table, nerves and grief keeping her awake, exhaustion pulling her down. Her cheeks were red from scrubbing them dry, and wet from the tears she’d missed.

Old Jack looked over at his son, and groaned.

Young Jack had started to transform, before… Well. Before. His skin was covered in a thin layer of downy fur, the pale silver of his undercoat. His ears were pointed and higher up on his head than was normal, his teeth were half human and half fangs, while his lower jaw jutted out in a severe underbite. His limbs were wrong, the proportions off, and his fingers were too short, his thumb too high on his wrist, to be normal. His bare feet were even more like a wolf’s paws. His clothes were torn at all the seams.

The warmth, being dragged over the ground, had not woken him.

“Perhaps there’s water in his lungs,” Grace whispered. It did not surprise him that their thoughts had traveled on the same line.

He couldn’t move from his chair, so it was Grace who rolled Young Jack onto his side, and squeezed his stomach and chest until water leaked from his mouth. She rubbed his arms and legs with one of the wool blankets, rubbed his face and chest, but he remained still and silent.

“Enough,” Old Jack murmured. “Enough. We can’t…”

He sighed. “He’s gone.”

Grace sat back on her heels. “Gone,” she repeated, and touched Young Jack’s cheek. She began to cry, silent tears that rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Jack…”

He didn’t know if she was talking to him, or to Young Jack. “I know.” He stared at Young Jack, partially transformed, and felt sick to his stomach. “We can’t let anyone see him like this.”

Grace looked up at him. “But-“

“Think! If anyone else saw him… At least with an empty grave he’ll be given the priest’s blessing.” Old Jack’s lips twisted with the bitter taste of reality. “We can’t let anyone know.”

Grace closed her eyes. She brushed at Young Jack’s hair. “Where, then?”

“In the woods. There is a cave, in the hill by the lake. It seems… fitting.” Near where he had saved Emily. Near the village. In the wild, where he had been more comfortable, and near to the native village, where his lover had been.

“Tomorrow,” Grace told him. “Early, before anyone comes to pay their respects. Time enough for Emily to say goodbye.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and held his hands out to her.

Neither of them slept the entire night. Early, so early it was still dark, Grace woke Emily from her restless sleep. The three of them said their goodbyes, and then Old Jack bundled Young Jack up in the blanket and carried him out. He was halfway to the cave in mind before he realized he had Young Jack’s shepherd’s crook in hand, instead of his own.

Ah, well, he could leave the staff with Young Jack. That, too, seemed fitting.

The cave was shallow. Old Jack laid his son down at the very back, the staff beside him, and then wrenched free a tree branch. He used the branch to pry at the rocks over the cave, until rock and dirt came free and blocked off the cave mouth. That would keep scavengers from getting at his son’s body, at least for a little.

With the work done, he slumped against the tree and sobbed until his chest hurt.

Then he turned, and went home. He still had Grace, and Emily. His son wouldn’t want him to stay and mourn, but to take care of the family.

So he would. He owed Young Jack that.

* * *

 

_It was cold, and dark, and he hurt so bad._ The moon overhead called to him, a strange song that felt familiar and different. He shoved rocks and dirt off and away, and picked up the odd staff that had been lying beside him. The wood frosted over at his touch, and it was so strange, so different, he dropped it in shock.

He looked up at the moon, which sang to him without words. The moon was full, and beautiful, and then the pain hit.

He fell to the ground, writhing in pain. He screamed, because he had to. Because there was something inside, trying to tear its way out, and he was being split apart and remade.

The moon continued to sing. The song got louder, more demanding, and the pain grew and grew. His hands warped, changing, and then changing back. His bones cracked and his joins popped and his muscles tore. Then it all healed. And began again.

It went on and on, and he felt the thing inside become stronger and stronger, more frantic. He tore at his face, his neck, his chest, his thighs, until the strange cloth he’d been wrapped in fell away in shreds. His blood dripped and smeared over his body, soaked into the ground, and smelt of pain and rage.

By dawn, he was fully out of his mind with pain. The moon ceased its singing as it dropped down below the horizon. He looked up, just enough sense left to know who to blame for his pain.

_“Jack Frost,”_ the moon told him, and then vanished.

Jack Frost? Was that… him?

Jack - as he had nothing else to call himself - collapsed onto the ground, and panting heavily. His strength trickled back, enough that he was able to push himself up onto hands and knees and look around.

He was in the middle of a forest. He looked down at his hands, which looked normal, except for the blood and flesh caught beneath the nails. They didn’t look like hands that had warped and changed, again and again through the night. He flexed his fingers, and looked higher, up the arms that had broken and twisted and healed and broken, to the shoulders that had dislocated time and again. He touched his face, where there were gashes, healing with a speed that felt normal, even as it frightened him.

Jack knew, somehow, that people weren’t supposed to heal this quickly. He also knew that the speed was normal for him.

The knowing, without knowing how he knew, was as worrying as the healing was.

The staff - shepherd’s crook, he knew, the same way he knew about the healing - was near at hand. He used it to stand, and brace against. It felt familiar to his hand, solid, and now that he had it he was reluctant to let go.

He stood, naked, looking out over the forest and the frozen lake. Jack looked down at himself, and frowned. Naked and bloody, even he knew that wasn’t right.

He scrubbed himself off with handfuls of snow. It wasn’t cold. It should have been, he knew that - but just like the healing and the shepherd’s crook, he also knew that it was normal for him not to feel the cold. He wasn’t sure why that was.

Jack finished cleaning himself, and looked around again. He heard noise coming from across the lake. He headed that way, and walked across the lake’s icy surface.

He slipped halfway across, but didn’t fall. The wind caught him up and carried him high into the air, until he hit a thick tree branch. He grunted, but held onto both his staff and the branch.

Jack looked around, and then down at his staff. He could fly?

He jumped off the branch, and fell halfway to the ground before he thought to yell. “Wind!”

The wind caught him again, and carried him towards the noise. Jack landed between two… houses… in a small village. Some part of him - the part that had been trying to come out to the moon’s call - recognized the place. Jack looked down at himself again, and winced. The people he saw were all wearing clothing. He was not. That… wasn’t right.

Jack stepped towards a woman walking by, carrying a basket and looking sad. “Excuse me,” he said.

The woman walked right through him.

Jack gasped, and clutched his chest. It was a different pain from the moon’s call, but just as bad - and then a small child ran through him, and it hurt more.

He ran through the village, trying to avoid the people who walked through him and not able to, not completely. None of them saw him. None of them heard him. None of them touched him.

Inside, the thing that had tried to come out got more and more upset. Jack gasped and sobbed, and ignored the thing, and ran and ran down a familiar seeming lane to a familiar seeming house.

There was a man there, and two dogs, and Jack caught his breath. A shepherd. He _knew_ that. “Sir? Sir! Please, you have to help…”

The man walked right through him.

At that, the thing inside screamed, and Jack felt it rise up inside his mind, and drown him in rage.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel. He couldn’t hear, or breathe, or think. The thing inside, the beast, had him.

It could have been a minute, an hour, or a lifetime, he didn’t know. He would never know. When he opened his eyes, body his again, he was in the middle of trackless wilderness. In dozens of feet in every direction were the shattered remains of trees and animals. Spikes and spires of ice coated everything, and snow crunched under bare feet. He knew that the beast inside had done this, in the time where he could not remember.

Jack shivered, and called to the wind to take him away from the dead place.

He learned, in time, some of what he was. People walked through him because he was a ‘spirit’, unseen unless believed in. He froze things because that was his element - water - and his season - winter. He wasn’t sure why he flew, but he did, and the few spirits he met didn’t seem confused or bothered by it, so he resolved not to care either.

Jack didn’t know what else he was for another century, though. He had learnt about being a spirit in the first fifty years, a little bit here from a dryad, a little bit there from a faun, or a dwarf, or a strange creature called a sylph.

But the werewolf - no, he didn’t know that part until he’d seen other werewolves.

And when he did… he was furious.

The moon called them, as well, but when it called they _changed_. Into wolves. When the moon called him, his body tried to change, but couldn’t, and he was reduced to writhing in pain as his body tried and tried, and the wolf inside tried to get out. Over the years he’d learnt how to bite back the sound of his pain. Wild animals could still see him, even if people could not, and predators were always attracted to the sound of pain.

Werewolves were immortal; Jack watched one werewolf for decade after decade, and the werewolf did not age. The werewolf died, gutted and trampled by a moose he’d been hunted, and had never known about his unseen watcher.

Werewolves could not swim; Jack saw another werewolf commit suicide by jumping into a lake when his mortal mate gave in to old age. He supposed being unable to swim - werewolves sank, he learnt - explained why his wolf inside got worse around water. Fear of drowning.

Werewolves were monsters. Jack saw, time after time, a werewolf run down a lone traveler and tear them to pieces. Sometimes the person survived, only to be a werewolf as well. Mostly, they died.

Jack watched, and learnt, and grew horrified. He had the same kind of monster inside. The wolf raged at the back of his mind, angry and frightened and it made Jack angry and frightened, so he walled it off as best he could.

He never knew, though, why the moon had called him as a spirit.

And there was no one to ask.

So he wandered, and did what he could for the children, who could make him smile when nothing else did, and stayed away from the other spirits.

Sometimes he had rages, where the wolf inside took over despite everything he did, and destroyed and destroyed and destroyed. The wolf could not touch the humans, but the spirits and animals were vulnerable.

Better to stay away.

By the third century, though, the rages had stopped. The wolf went silent, waking only when the full moon called. Jack returned to the cities and towns and people he’d missed, though he stayed wary around other spirits.

He had no idea if the wolf would wake again. It was safer if he stayed away from those he could touch and talk to.

A pity they did not do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this isn't Sunday. See me care. Also, this is the last chapter. Wolf Jack is being, very slowly, written. I've got everything except the very, very beginning. (The following three stories, however, are more or less fully plotted out. Also, I leave you this: Alpha, Beta, Omega, as per stupid mpreg rules, were the Pooka.)
> 
> So. Lots of writing in my future, lots of werewolves, lots of re-reading Patricia Briggs' novels.
> 
> Fun werewolf fact-time: werewolves (at least Patricia Briggs') are too dense to swim. Like chimpanzees, they're too muscular for their bodies for density to be outdone by water displacement. While I'm quite sure thrashing about would let a werewolf stay above water for a few minutes, drowning is _the_ method of choice for suicide. (There is mention of werewolf scuba divers, but there the flotation and sinking is controlled by weights and airbags, whatever the proper term is.)


End file.
